


The Art Of Being Manageable

by Nasyat



Category: Cuphead (Video Game)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Jam, M/M, Redeemed King Dice, Restlessness, Symbolism, Working In The Night Because Old Habits Die Hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-27 22:27:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15034646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nasyat/pseuds/Nasyat
Summary: A gift for my dear friend Clover. Word prompts: restless, humming, safe.King Dice might have second thoughts.





	The Art Of Being Manageable

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Birthday, beanie! I decided to post this, after some... seasoning.

The moon was young, a nail clipping on the velvet drape of blue. Blue, blue velvet was the sky, with a diamond inlay and wadded clouds that seemed to have a silver lining; they flew across the celestial dome like sheep, and Dice could almost discern a slender figure of their shepherd. Does Hilda ever sleep? Or does she rise to the Heaviside layer and up, higher, into the infinite vastness of stars? The constellations — Gemini, Cancer, Capricorn… yada yada, were believed to decide the fate of the the toons that walked the earth underneath the volatile skies. Dice trusted the stars to align is such way that was best for him. He was a lucky fella, wasn’t he? A Fortune’s lover, born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He could get out of any situation, and had everything under control.

And yet, he found himself in a rickety house, wearing some old rag of a shirt and mopping the floor for the second time this week, nocturnally. That wasn’t that bad, he told himself. Or excessive — the boys might had spilled lemonade in the kitchen, and if they hadn’t, then they had surely stained the floors with their dirty little shoes at some point. The cooking area must be cleaned regularly, the health standards prescribe. It should be kept from pests, cooking surfaces should be easy to wipe, the food supplies must be checked for spoilage and…

Dice rested his forehead against the mop handle and sighed as a person who was about done with it all and needed a good stretch of legs. The moon was young, but he wasn’t — not that Dice would ever admit to it.

The mopping could wait. Laying out the fruits according to size and ripeness, boiling the milk twice and assorting the spices in alphabetical order _definitely_ could wait.

“What a deck of absolute bull crap,” muttered Dice under his breath and finally sat down. The Taurus in the sky mooed, as if it had heard his words.

No one fumbles in the night like that because they feel nice and fuzzy. But that wasn’t the reason, of course. King Dice wasn’t restless, he just liked the nocturnal time: it was filled with lights, music, drunken partying of customers that never sleep.

Except it wasn’t anymore. Except it was quiet and dark, like in one of those customers’ grave. There was no reason to hustle and bustle, no reason to keep the joint running like a perfectly debugged machine. Dice knew there were toons in this house, and yet in that moment, it felt like he was totally and irreversibly… alone.

King Dice didn’t allow himself the cowardice of retreating into the bedroom, where the even snoring of his partner could be heard. Instead, he lit up another candle and watched it being devoured by flame, little by little.

Is that what happened to him in Hell? Is that what the casino did to his soul? Was it eaten away, gradually rendering him empty as a jam jar he’s washed out that evening? Dice watched the wax drip, and the waning of that candle made his heart tremble with fear.

Screw the threadbare shirt, or his unkept mustache. Who cares if you don’t get to live in luxury, when your immortal soul is at stake.

He grabbed onto his head, feeling the cracks and whittled corners — the reminders of that one big fight lost, and many fights afterwards. He felt for his dots, wondering if they had turned purple again, as they had under the contract’s influence. The Devil liked purple.

“That stookie… Have I cashed in my goddamn chips, this time?” Whispered Dice, smitten with irrational fear, and dropped his hands. “I feel dead as a doornail...”

His only answer was the ominous creaking of the old house. All in all, Mister King Dice had bigger demons to gnaw on him now.

“There are turtles all the way down*…” He said, voice muffled, and lowered his head in defeat.

***

A jar was placed right in front of his spout with a loud thump. Elder Kettle adjusted his glasses and inspected it, while Dice stood nearby with his arms crossed.

“Ah,” said the older toon, as he had spotted the lid. The tin-plate was bubbling from the gasses pressing on it from within. “It’s spoiled.”

“Spoiled indeed,” muttered Dice through gritted teeth. “I thought you knew how to stir up jam, pops.”

Kettle ignored the caustic remark and rose from the table with a grunt, leaning on his cane.

“It needs to be emptied. Or, better yet, let’s just dump it as it is, we have enough jars to last us a lifetime, don’t you agree?” He made a grab for it, but Dice was faster — the man snatched the jar out of his hand and pressed it to his own chest, staring wildly. Elder Kettle gave him a surprised look.

“If you hadn’t…” Dice gulped, and continued. “If you had cooked and rolled it properly, there’d be no need to get rid of it now!” Kettle blinked.

“Are you accusing me, Mister Dice?”

There was a moment of silence, during which the older toon was studying Dice, and Dice, in turn, was clinging onto his jar, trying to stare the other down. Finally, he gave up. Sighing, he forced himself to relax and reluctantly handed the jar to his partner.

“Have you slept at all, sugar cube?” Carefully asked Kettle, accepting the container. Dice, who peered at him with scandalized ardor just a second ago, was now hiding his eyes. Elder Kettle shuffled closer and laid a comforting hand on his. “I don’t recall you coming to bed.”

“I… Yeah, I… Nah, not really.” Dice shook off the embarrassment and gave him a crooked smile. Kettle frowned.

“What‘s bugging you, Dice? If you’re worried that the boys could’ve eaten it, then I can assure you I’ve taught them a lesson or two about bad jam. If it’s about my incompetence, then you go check the cellar and tell me how many jars with spoiled jam there is.”

“There was only this one,” murmured Dice tiredly and flopped down on the now vacant chair. “And those were my only two excuses.”

“So it’s not that.”

“Nah.”

Dice didn’t seem inclined to say anything else; in fact, he was just resting his chin in his hand and looking at the jar wistfully. Elder Kettle put all of his weight on the cane, taking in the sight. His Dice was a good-looking man, but in deep thought he appeared even more sublime.

“You are contemplating something.” That wasn’t so much of a question as it was a statement. “So much, that you’re losing sleep over it.”

“Mhm.”

“What’s special about this jar? Why did you want to protect it?” He tried again. Dice pressed his fingers to his mouth. The thought made him visibly angry, so he spat out:

“Nothin’. There’s nothing special about it.” He rose to his feet and began pacing the kitchen. Kettle watched him patiently. The man finally ended up by the window, leaning out so much that half of his body stuck outside.

“Hey, don’t touch my marigolds!” He yelled. Elder Kettle heard a resentful retort, coming from Cuphead — “We don’t need no dumb business with your flowers, Dice!” — and chuckled. The toon unstuck his torso and loomed as a dark, angry silhouette against the window.

“I swear to creator, they are plucking them,” he stated. Elder Kettle just shook his head, smiling.

“Don’t evade the topic, Mister Dice.”

“Fine, I’ll spill.”

Dice tried to turn his back again, looking out the window, but had the decency to face him for his next words.

“Am I rotten, Kettle?”

Kettle’s brows flew to his lid.

“Ah,” he said. Dice was staring at him intently, leaning against the windowsill and drumming his fingers on it. “So that’s what it is about.”

“Who’s evading the answer now, Mister Knight?”

“I think the answer is obvious. Why won’t you elaborate?”

Dice sneered.

“If it were obvious, why would I ask, then?!” He screamed, enraged. “Are you saying that I’m a dumbbell?”

Elder Kettle overcame the distance between them in several jerky steps and gripped the other’s arm. Dice immediately grew quiet, looking at him from under the furrowed brow.

“Dice, please.”

The soft utterance of his name was enough to calm the toon down. King Dice changed in the face — a guilty expression settled in his features, and he let his lover drag him down, into the embrace.

“I’m sorry,” he said, letting the other pat the back of his cubical head. “I dunno what’s gotten into me.”

“What a stir,” teased Elder Kettle, and let out a little cloud of steam. It enveloped Dice in its wet warmth, and the man closed his eyes, smiling.

“Hee-hee.”

“No need to get your shirt out. It’s good that you’re having second thoughts about your past… career,” said the older toon. “But there’s no use to wallow in remorse. There’s now, and that’s all there is.”

“I ain't wallowing in nothin’,” grumbled Dice, although without any malice. He tightened his grip on Kettles back. “The nights are awfully quiet here. Dark, and… dragged out.”

Kettle didn’t say anything, but drew back and pulled him in the direction of the living room. Dice followed obediently.

They settled on the little green sofa — Dice had to pull his legs up, laying his head of Kettle’s lap. The elder cradled him, and Dice thought, maybe he should’ve come to him from the start. Maybe there was no use fretting over the past. If the past formed the present, and in the present he was being lulled to sleep, in a house where he was loved and accepted, needed, even, where he didn’t have to cheat, lie, and be a general sleazeball, maybe it was okay that he had before. Maybe he could live with it, all-dandy. The older toon began humming, some obsolete lullaby, perhaps, and Dice felt his heart swell with a feeling of safety and belonging. He loved his dear, he did — Kettle was kind, and wise, and there was this air around him that could calm the restless toon in a matter of seconds. He was peaceful, like a bouffant mountain glade in spring. Like a big, clean library. Dice cherished that. His newfound flower patch and the books about flippant adventurers began growing on him.

“How ‘bout you give me a little honey cooler, hm?” He murmured, and Kettle ran a hand over his eyes, closing them.

Through the veil of doziness, Dice heard the front door open and close. The patter of busy feet, the childish talk about the new cars and whatnot. Then, a hush.

“Ew,” followed by erratic shooshish.

“They are having a moment, Cup! Don’t disturb them,” a whisper. Dice couldn’t help but smile, his usual reticence forgotten under the yoke of slumber.

“Why are they having ‘a moment’ on the sofa, huh?! I like sitting on it, you know!” More hushed arguing, then the sound of a slap fight. The copper belly by his cheek shook with laughter, and Dice nuzzled into it. He let the sleepless night take its reigns over him, and disappeared into the realm of omnifarious, the smile never leaving his face.

(He would never tell anyone, but he dreamt about sailing the seas of tea under the bronze colored skies, on a boat made of caramel.)

**Author's Note:**

> *The myth of the world being flat and resting on a turtle’s back. There was an anecdote on QI, where Stephen Fry told about a woman who believed that the world lay on the backs of infinite turtles. Here, it’s a metaphor for the Devil being not the ultimate evil in this world.


End file.
